Reunited, and it feels so...

TW: suicide attempt, racism

My 20 year reunion at La Guardia High School of Music, Art, & Performing Arts was last weekend and I already can’t wait until the 25th one. As I was leaving, fellow alumni gave me the family ‘guilt’ trip of, “What? You’re cutting out? So soon?” I hugged them goodbye like we were long, lost brothers and sisters in a family reunion. Since I didn’t graduate there, the gratitude I have for their welcoming attitude, their insistence that I’m still family, is held so dear to my heart and something I wouldn’t have felt as deeply had I not attended this reunion.

Some pre-reunion talk

There are however, reasons I left midway and finished elsewhere a year later. There were a lot of things I put myself through at the time, as well as shit that straight up happened to me without my consent; I was both victim and perpetrator. There was the church I became involved with at 13 that mentally set us apart from the rest of the secular, “sinning” folks outside. This disillusioned and isolated me and eventually led to my suicide attempt at 15. I delve into this more in other writings and I feel the need to get on with other points here, so forgive me if I seem to be glossing over certain things.

At 16, I was prescribed meds, curled up in my bed a lot and at one point wrote the words, “I will hurt myself” under my wooden table nearby. My mother likened me to an ostrich who buries their head in the sand but is still seen by others and therefore, is not hiding or escaping much. I was also assigned to see a social worker once a week who stopped working after having her baby, so as helpful as those sessions were, they didn’t last long.

Later that year, coming out of the NY Public Library on 42nd and 5th, I met an older man, about 30, who was on in his way inside. He bumped his head against part of the revolving door and joked that it was my fault because he was too busy looking at me, admiring my beauty. He had sort of a French accent and as he kept talking, gave me his number. He suggested it was fate and in my naïveté, went to see him one afternoon. He seemed so nice and friendly. He immediately started having sex with me and believe it or not, it was not something I was expecting. Statutory rape was not a term I understood until years later. At 17, I had my most horrific experience that winter. I was walking home one night, two houses away from my own, and was suddenly grabbed from behind, thrown into a car and sexually assaulted by a man I never saw before or since, not even in the mug shots. I definitely explore these things more in my writing and continue to do so.

My point here is that when I take these trips down memory lane, they are far from pleasant. It’s more like walking through hot coals being very discerning over where I’m stepping, where I should linger, and of course as always, when to move on.

When I was 14, the high school of my (first) choice accepted me, thanks largely due to the monologue rehearsals with my Titi Janis, my dance rehearsals with the after school programs, “Song and Dance” and “Once Upon A Time”, and some serious, down on my knees praying. Though I didn’t get into Dance, the Drama department took me in after a callback which made me an official Drama major in this very special school, one borough and 3- 4 trains away (the R to the E to the D to the 1 was one of the ways I was able to commute). I had culture shock (and thrill) on a few levels. Coming from the pseudo suburbs in Queens to super urban Manhattan, the “city”, from being with older kids who smoked and got high right in front of the building and in the bathrooms, to the creative ways many of them dressed and expressed themselves, from the constant singing from the Vocal majors, belting out their talent in hallways and the cafeteria, to the actual demographics. The schools I attended before were mainly white middle class and a working to middle class immigrant population. Elmhurst, Queens resides in the most crowded and diverse district in the world, district 24.

“But no black people!” my friend Dave half-joked as I described it to him one day. He was right though. Elmhurst schools are diverse, but La Guardia’s range is just as incredible, if not more so- from rich to poor, light to dark, straight to queer, hailing from every nation I’m sure, everybody walks those halls. It is truly brag worthy.

My first week of drama class consisted of an acting exercise where everyone would walk around in a circle mimicking each other’s movements. Whenever the person in front of us changed what they did, we were supposed to follow suit as the person behind us was supposed to do, and so on. Aisha, the girl behind me, made fun of the way I moved. Raw, nervous, and defensive, I put up a front, sucked my teeth and retaliated with, “Well, I’m not into that black shit!” As I said it, I immediately felt its stupidity.  My real intention was not to try to develop any bigotry in me, but to ruffle her feathers somehow. Hurt people hurt people and a person’s race and gender are the most obvious targets, especially among strangers. I didn't know her well and since we're both girls, the only outward thing I saw left to pick on aside from her being tall, was being black. So I reacted to let her know not to fuck with me. Well, the joke was on me because all Aisha did was laugh, while anyone else who heard me laughed along too as if to say, “Hahaa, this stuck up bitch went too far!”. I was effortlessly shunned. I was a fly they easily flicked away.

But what did I really mean by “black shit”? Moving well? I wasn’t into that? Did I prefer to move awkwardly?? Was I implying that black people only move well? That there isn’t a single black person whose moves are less than stellar? And only black people move well? It makes less and less sense the more I break it down. Yes, I felt hurt by being mocked and yes, that hurtful garbage came out of my mouth in return, but there is no way I can honestly stand by its meaning. Ever. Not when black is present, if not in my skin tone, then in:

my family,

my roots,

my blood,

my history,

my friends,

my countries (USA, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic),

my culture,

my teachers,

Even if blackness weren’t so prolific in my life and this world, it's still a shit remark I have to kick to the curb, so that it can rot and obliterate.

I didn’t get to see Aisha at the reunion that night, I don’t know if she attended. I saw one of her old friends who told me that she didn’t keep in touch with her anymore. I apologize for what I said. If the ones directly (or indirectly) involved that day do not understand or forgive me, I realize they have that right. I’m not after those coveted ally cookies. My job as a human being is to put it out there, fess up and own up to what I’ve said and done. To learn, grow, transform, and take it from there.

Even though not everyone remembered me that night last weekend, it was alright. I didn’t remember every single person there either. Even when they reminisced about their prom and the senior dance festival, I was fine, and comfortable enough to walk slightly apart from the crowd from time to time during the building tour. I just found my way back into conversations when it became relevant, or I initiated my own. I considered it a triumph of some kind to be able to make it out that day. Everyone was happy and reveling in the nostalgia, and some were able to acknowledge how weird it was too. But we all had “spirit” and knew how to enjoy ourselves without getting bogged down. Our saudade is a spring board that can develop, spread and help us take flight and the past is a time we can always return to, even when we’re by ourselves, but it helps when we’re all there for each other. Despite the endured and inflicted pain, it is still possible and miraculous in some cases, to feel a true sense of joy, camaraderie, and sentimental goodness that comes when you revisit a time, or in this case, old classmates and friends.